


Procrustean Bed

by tinzelda



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:18:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lewis gets shot on a case, and Hathaway takes care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Procrustean Bed

**Author's Note:**

> This was a birthday fic written for Vsee. Thanks to Pharis, who cheerfully did a speedy beta in time for the birthday deadline. Speedy, but still brilliant. All remaining problems are mine, of course. And apologies for any lingering Americanisms.

Robbie came to with something poking at his ear. He forced his eyes open and saw a young woman. He first thought of Lyn and couldn’t imagine what she might be doing with his ear, then realized that he was getting his temperature taken.

Fragments of memory rattled into his brain: female voices, shrill and panicked. The blue sky, filled with clouds. Hathaway shouting, then sirens.

Still groggy, Robbie thought this young woman might be a paramedic, but she was wearing scrubs, not a uniform. He was in hospital.

“Hello, sleeping beauty,” the nurse said.

“Hardly,” Robbie answered. His voice was gruff, as if he had indeed slept for a hundred years in a dusty castle.

She had an overly large nose and stringy brown hair, but her smile, full of crooked white teeth, made her one of the most beautiful sights Robbie had ever seen. She wouldn’t be smiling like that if he were at death’s door. He tried to take a mental survey of his body parts, but he felt no pain. It was difficult to concentrate.

The nurse patted his shoulder. “I’ll call the doctor, now you’re awake.” She touched his shoulder again. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back. And your friend is here, so you’re not alone.” She nodded at the far corner of the room and left the room after another quick pat.

Robbie tried to turn and felt a spike of pain in his belly. He fell back onto the pillow and moved just his head so that he could look for Hathaway. He was lying on a low cot. His face was placid, deep in sleep. His fingers were woven together over his belt buckle, and his feet stuck off the end of the cot by a good foot.

The doctor swept into the room. She was impossibly young and talked very quickly. Robbie knew he wasn’t understanding her. He heard _two units of blood_ and _no damage to the internal organs_. At least twice she used the phrase _simple ballistic trauma_ , and Robbie still couldn’t muster the words to ask her to slow down and start from the beginning.

There was movement from the cot in the corner, and Robbie could see Hathaway pulling himself up. He swung his feet down to the floor and stared at Robbie. It was too much for him to pay attention to both Hathaway and the doctor, so he let her rambling wash over him. When the doctor turned away from the bed, efficient to the point of abruptness, Hathaway stood. Before she’d even made it to the door he was there, taking Robbie’s hand in his.

The image of Hathaway’s face flashed into Robbie’s mind: strained and pale, hovering over Robbie as he lay on the pavement—he’d never seen so much emotion on the lad’s face. The memory made him want to push off the fogginess of whatever drug they were pumping into him so he could be more alert, more himself.

“I’m glad to hear it’s only simple ballistic trauma,” he said carefully. “I thought it might be something serious.”

There was a movement at the corner of Hathaway’s mouth, but it wasn’t really a smile.

“Honestly, I am glad,” Robbie said. “Glad to be alive. I thought I was going to meet my maker.”

Hathaway’s left eyebrow lifted. “You do believe in God then?”

“Most of the time, yeah,” Robbie answered. It wasn’t that he wanted to have this sort of discussion—not when the oblivion of chemically induced sleep beckoned, but he didn’t want to cut it short when he could see the tense lines of Hathaway’s face straightening into a more familiar neutral blandness. “Well, some of the time.”

“Surely either you believe or you don’t.”

“It would be nice to believe, but in our line of work? When I see the things people do to each other, and to themselves...” Lewis thought of Will McEwan sprawled on the floor of St. Mark’s. Hathaway’s mouth turned down, and Robbie knew he was thinking the same thing. He sighed and said, “But of course, it’s people who make the mistakes.”

“You say ‘mistakes,” like it’s marks off on an exam. But a man shot you.”

“To err is human; to forgive, divine.”

“You forgive him? That quickly?”

Robbie thought of the man: Billy Collins, marginally successful con man. They had questioned the man a few days before, and though his girlfriend had turned up dead soon after, Robbie didn’t believe Collins was guilty. They’d had to talk to him again, of course, but it had been nothing but procedure until Collins panicked and fled. Robbie imagined what it would be like, running, frightened, and turning to see all six-feet-plus of Hathaway, descending upon you like a righteous angel.

“I think I do,” Robbie admitted.

Hathaway frowned at that, but his hand squeezed Robbie’s. Robbie was surprised to realise that their hands were still linked.

When Hathaway spoke again, his voice was very quiet. “Perhaps if I’d been the one shot, I’d be able to forgive him too.”

The door swung open, and Laura Hobson’s voice saved Robbie from having to come up with a response.

“Sergeant Hathaway,” she said as she approached Robbie’s bedside. She made the name sound like an accusation. “I should have known I’d find you still here.”

Hathaway pulled his hand away from Robbie’s and stood up. He went to slouch by the window, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“Dr. Hobson,” Robbie said, hoping to draw her attention to himself and spare Hathaway. “I’m afraid your expertise won’t be needed today.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about you,” she said, laying a gentle hand on Robbie’s shoulder. “You’ll get the best of care—not to mention you’re a tough old thing. It’s your sergeant that worries me. He hasn’t left this hospital. I asked the nurses to give him a sedative so that he’d get some rest. He didn’t seem to find it amusing, but he finally agreed to lie down.”

Hathaway regarded her calmly but said nothing.

“Look at the poor boy, he’s exhausted, and he hasn’t even changed his clothes.” Her voice lost its somewhat imperious teasing tone. “Really, James, you must go home. You need to rest and clean yourself up. Your trousers are all over blood.”

Hathaway’s dark grey trousers were darker at the knees. Robbie remembered Hathaway kneeling next to him as he lay on the pavement—Robbie had tried to get up and Hathaway had kept him still by pressing one hand gently on his chest.

Hathaway stared down at the blood stains until Laura took pity on him. She crossed the room and touched his arm.

“You go on home now,” she said gently. “I’ll sit with him for a while.”

Hathaway’s gaze turned to Robbie.

“Get on with you,” Robbie said. “Get some rest.”

Hathaway looked as though he wanted to say more, but at last he nodded, his mouth once again set in a grim, downturned curve, and strode out of the room.

“He doesn’t know what to do, poor lamb,” Laura said. She came to sit in the chair and rested her fingertips on Robbie’s wrist. “I think he’s angry with himself.”

“He couldn’t have stopped this.”

Laura shook her head. “He thinks the man was aiming for him and missed. And I spoke to Jean. He told her he shouldn’t have left you.”

“Left me?”

“After you were shot he took a pair of darbies off a uniform and chased the man down. He wasn’t gone long, but when he came back you were losing consciousness.” Laura laughed then, and it sounded very out of place in the stark room. “They had to call his mobile to find where the shooter was. Hathaway’d left him cuffed to an old drain pipe in an alley half a mile away. Then he dashed back to you and rode off in the ambulance. No one knew where to look for the bastard.”

*****

Robbie found it impossible to measure the passage of time. It was hard to even tell what was day and what was night because someone was forever coming in to “take his vitals.” Hathaway was there until the nurses sent him away every evening. Robbie slept a lot because of the drugs, so they didn’t talk much. But it was nice to wake up to the sight of Hathaway, his head bent over a book, rather than an empty room. There were a couple more visits from Laura and one from Innocent, but mostly the changing days were marked only by Hathaway wearing different clothes. So Robbie was unprepared when the doctor told him he was ready to go home.

On the designated morning, Hathaway arrived carrying an overnight bag. “I took the liberty of fetching some clean clothes for you, sir.”

“I’m surprised you found anything to bring,” Robbie said, trying to be cheerful. “I was planning on doing a wash.”

Robbie started to sit up but remembered in time to use the control panel at his side and let the bed do the work for him. Hathaway carefully set down the bag, and Robbie unzipped it. He couldn’t see his boxer shorts in the bag without imagining Hathaway pulling them out of his bureau drawer. Robbie shouldn’t have felt so uncomfortable, but it seemed improper, like asking too much of his sergeant. He reminded himself that he hadn’t asked Hathaway to do anything and tucked the boxers aside to see what else was in the bag.

Track pants. Robbie didn’t like wearing track pants outside his flat or the gym—it made him feel like he was wearing his pyjamas on the street. At least he wouldn’t still be in a hospital gown, with his arse on display for all and sundry. He thanked Hathaway, who was still hovering nearby, and threw the bedclothes off his legs.

Getting his feet off the bed was a challenge, but Robbie moved slowly and managed to maneuver himself fully upright with minimal discomfort, only a few sharp but temporary twinges of pain. He lifted the boxer shorts out of the bag and tried to bend enough to get his foot through one of the leg holes, but the drugs made him clumsy, and after a few failed attempts, he looked at Hathaway, whose eyes darted away.

“If you’d like me to step outside, sir, I—”

“No, I don’t need you step outside.” Though Hathaway’s expression didn’t change, Robbie knew his words had come out more sharply than he’d meant them to. He hated the idea of Hathaway helping him dress, as if he were a child or, worse, a doddering old man. “What I need is a little help.”

A look of surprise registered on Hathaway’s face for a split second, but he quickly stepped closer. Without Robbie saying another word, Hathaway took the boxers from Robbie’s hand and bent so that Robbie could shuffle his feet into them. He did the same with the track pants and pulled them up just far enough for Robbie to grab hold of them. Then he averted his gaze but held onto Robbie’s arm. It wasn’t at all as embarrassing as Robbie’d feared it would be. He was able to pull the pants up under the hospital gown and finish dressing on his own.

He had to let Hathaway do his socks and trainers. He also had to lean on Hathaway’s arm to lower himself onto the car seat. By the time Hathaway had the door to Robbie’s flat unlocked, he was grateful for the track pants. It was all he could do to collapse on the bed. He was asleep in moments.

*****

The flat was dark and quiet when Robbie awoke. Perhaps it was silly to feel lonely, but he was never meant to live alone. He couldn’t expect Hathaway to do more than he already had.

Robbie carefully angled himself up and out of the bed. The drugs had clearly worn off, so he took a pill from the bottle Hathaway had left on the bedside table, pulled himself out of bed, and padded out of the bedroom to get a drink of water to wash it down.

There was a single lamp lit next to the sofa, and by its dim light Robbie could see Hathaway stretched out, sound asleep. His legs were propped up on the sofa’s arm, his feet stretching way out into the air. When Robbie approached, he noticed a paperback book lying open on Hathaway’s chest. He lifted the book, and as he looked around for something to serve as a bookmark, Hathaway stirred and opened his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Robbie whispered.

“No, it’s fine.” He rubbed sleepily at his eyes and yawned. “Why are you up? What do you need?”

It was obvious Hathaway was ready to leap up and wait on him, so Robbie touched his shoulder. “Stay where you are. I just wanted a drink of water.” He held up the pain pill between his thumb and forefinger.

“You should have called for me.”

“I didn’t know you were here.”

Hathaway frowned at this, clearly insulted that Robbie would think he’d abandon him.

“You should sit down,” Hathaway insisted. “Or shall I help you back to bed?”

“Stop fussing. I want to stand a bit.”

As Robbie watched, Hathaway tugged his t-shirt down where it had ridden up to reveal a stripe of shockingly pale skin.

“My sofa’s too short,” Robbie said, gesturing at Hathaway’s dangling feet.

“Or I’m too tall.”

Robbie only smiled a little and shook his head.

“No Procrustean bed for me then?”

“What?”

“Procrustes? An ancient Greek myth,” Hathaway explained. He ran a hand over his hair. “Procrustes had an iron bed, and he would invite travellers to spend the night. If they were shorter than the bed, he’d stretch them out until they fit exactly.”

“Maybe I did hear this at school,” Robbie interjected.

“And if they were too tall he’d lop off their feet.”

“So a ‘Procrustean bed’ is...”

“An arbitrary standard,” Hathaway finished. He was staring at the ceiling, but he spoke as if he were reading the definition from a dictionary. “Forcing something or someone into conformity.”

Hathaway seemed to be waiting for some kind of response.

“I see the Brothers Grimm have nothing on you,” Robbie said.

Hathaway turned his head and gave Robbie one of his rare open smiles.

*****

When Robbie emerged from the bedroom in the morning, the first thing he saw was Hathaway, frowning. Robbie thought maybe he should have stuck with being an academic—he had that look of withering schoolteacher disapproval down pat. But he didn’t scold or try to send Robbie back to bed. After a moment he turned his attention back to the task at hand: folding Robbie’s laundry. It was all there: socks, smalls, everything. Somehow, it didn’t bother Robbie now as much as it had before, but Hathaway looked a little sheepish.

“You didn’t have to,” Robbie said.

“There’s so little I can do.”

“You’ve done plenty.”

Robbie lowered himself onto the couch, wondering how he would get back up, and reached for a sock. Hathaway seemed to take this as permission to continue, pulling another sock out of the pile and finding its mate. They took turns adding folded pairs to the pile until everything was done.

“Thank you, James,” Robbie said, and he wasn’t referring only to the laundry. 

“You’re very welcome, sir,” Hathaway answered quietly. 

Robbie got the feeling Hathaway had read his mind. It wouldn’t be the first time. Hathaway fetched another of Robbie’s pills and a glass of water, and Robbie dutifully downed both.

*****

The next time Robbie woke up, hours later, the flat was filled with a wonderful aroma. His stomach rumbled. He’d been eating, of course, but that savory smell, full of garlic and herbs, made him feel truly hungry for the first time since he woke up in hospital.

Hathaway appeared. “Ah, you’re awake.”

“Just in time for tea, it seems.”

Robbie rolled out of bed and stood. It was getting easier to manage it. In fact, though he was hurting, he decided to skip the pill for a while. Bearing this minor discomfort would be better than feeling like his head was filled with cotton.

He made his way out to the kitchen where Hathaway had already set two places at the worktop. Robbie sank onto one of the stools and, as soon as Hathaway had joined him, took a bite of his meal: pasta covered in a sauce thick with chicken and vegetables. It was delicious.

“Where did this come from?”

“Your kitchen.”

“No, before that—which restaurant?” Robbie took another bite.

“I made it, sir.”

“You can cook?” Robbie asked with his mouth still full.

“Not really. This is my one speciality.”

“Lyn started out like that, though she’s a wonderful cook now. She had one lovely meal—she called it her date dinner. The one thing good enough for company, she said.”

An odd expression crossed Hathaway’s face. “I’ve never made this for anyone before, sir.”

Robbie tried to return to his bed and rest, but he couldn’t keep still. He could hear Hathaway doing the washing up in the kitchen. Was he _singing_? He didn’t seem like the whistle-while-you-work type, but then again, it sounded like he was singing in Latin, or maybe Italian, and that was about right. It made Robbie smile—such an awkward sod, his sergeant.

Once the sounds of rushing water and clinking dishes were finished, everything was quiet. Robbie managed to stay in bed another half hour, at most, before he couldn’t stand it any longer. He found Hathaway slouched over his laptop.

“Tell that isn’t work you’re doing.”

Hathaway didn’t look up. “You have no idea how much paperwork you’ve created, getting yourself shot,” he said.

“Maybe you ought to go back to work? I’m fine now, on my own.”

Hathaway’s answer was distracted. “Innocent would want me to work with someone else.”

“It would only be temporary.”

“Yeah, but...” Hathaway didn’t finish his sentence, but Robbie knew what he meant. He felt much the same.

“Perhaps you ought to go back to bed now, sir.”

Robbie sighed. “I’m not made for all this lying about, doing nothing.”

Hathaway looked thoughtful. “I have an idea.”

Hathaway moved the television into the bedroom. Robbie wasn’t sure it would help all that much—it wasn’t like he ever really spent much time watching telly. But he found an old movie, and it must have kept him distracted, because he wasn’t tempted to get up and wander again. After a while, Hathaway appeared to check on him and eyed the movie on the screen.

“ _Mrs. Miniver_ ,” Robbie said.

Hathaway stood by the door for a few minutes, watching, then came in and perched on the edge of the bed, painfully careful not to jostle the mattress and disturb Robbie.

Robbie tossed a pillow at his head. “For God’s sake, man, I’m not made of glass. Make yourself comfortable.”

Hathaway gave him a sidelong look with a hint of a smile, tucked the pillow behind his back, and leaned against the headboard. He still had the look about him of being careful, but before too long his eyelids began to droop, and his head fell back against the wall. It was no wonder he was so tired—he had been helping Robbie like a full-time nurse and then stealing work time on his laptop too. As he slept, he slouched down by degrees until he was lying flat.

At the hospital, on that tiny cot, and even on Robbie’s couch, Hathaway had kept himself somewhat tidy and contained even while unconscious. But apparently when he had both comfort and space he took advantage of it, sprawling to fill two-thirds of Robbie’s bed. It didn’t bother Robbie much—he was comfortable enough himself, and sitting close to the edge of the bed meant it would be easier to pull himself out of it next time he needed to get up.

The movie ended, and Robbie was an hour into a cricket match before Hathaway woke up. He jerked his head off the pillow as if startled and looked at Robbie. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He struggled to sit up, half-asleep as he was. “I didn’t—”

Robbie put his hand on Hathaway’s arm and pushed him back down onto the mattress. “You’re all right.”

Hathaway frowned a bit at that, but he did lie back down without any protest. He yawned and stretched, his knuckles bumping the headboard.

He seemed so very tall all of a sudden. Maybe because they were lying down? It hadn’t taken long for Robbie to get used to the towering shadow walking beside him, but here in the bed Hathaway seemed to take up so very much room. His legs went on forever as he stretched, extending past the foot of the bed. It brought to mind the gruesome story with the iron bed. But when Hathaway turned to Robbie and settled himself into a comfortable curve, he fit just fine.


End file.
